Sister of Mine
by Volitan
Summary: Mycroft had sent Sherlock a text message: "Wake Dr. Watson. Coming to 221B. ETA 20 minutes. Strip your bed and put clean sheets on it. MH." However, it isn't Mycroft that's injured, its their little sister.
1. Sister of Mine

**Sister of Mine****. **

**oOo**

**I am an amateur author of false name,**

**I borrow worlds of another's fame.**

**I stake no claim on recognised locations,**

**Neither do I own canon situations.**

**I merely come here to spend a while,**

**Reading other's work; writing my own style.**

**I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.**

**I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.**

**I do not mean to step on legal toes,**

**I mean no infringement, I'm friend not foe.**

**So please, do come in, relax, unwind.**

**I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find**.

oOo

**Author's note**:

In _'The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes'_ there is a short story titled _'The Adventure of the Copper Beeches'_. Now, I don't want to spoil the book for anyone who is inspired to read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work, and hasn't already done so… but, at a point in this story, Holmes comments to the female character (Violet Hunter): _**"I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a sister of mine apply for."**_… and it got me thinking… What if there was another Holmes sibling, a _female_ sibling. Turns out that quite a few people have also wondered weather there was a sister, so I hope my plot is a different take on the concept.

So, as far as I am aware, _Thalia Juliet Holmes_ is my own creation. and she's named after my favourite variety of _Fuchsia. _(My Mum, a _Fuchsia_ lover, has a Thalia growing on her windowsill at the moment!) Seriously, have a look at a few pikkies of the plant on the net if you get a minute, its a rather pretty little thing… It _also_ just so happens the Ancient Greeks were rather fond of the name too - well, before it was Latinised, anyway. _'Thaleia' _was one of the nine Muses, one of the three Graces, a Nereid (that particular Thaleia was Achilles's Mother), _and_ a Nymph (who was also the demi-goddess of plant life and vegitation). Now, I _could_ have made myself look all clever by saying I named my OFC after all those ancient Greek deities - but at least I was honest enough to admit to naming her after a plant… and I'm going off on quite a tangent at the moment… _must_ _focus again on the fic…_

This was actually the _second_ chapter to be written, because another chapter later on DEMANDED my attention first. As far as timeline goes, it is set after the second episode, but before the third.

So, to bring this (rather long) A/N to an end: I really enjoyed writing this fic, and I hope that you enjoy reading it.

oOo

**Blissfully Ignorant.**

Sherlock was roused from his typically light sleep by the beeping of his mobile alerting him to a text message. A glance at the screen told him that the time was 01:23. Had Sherlock been like everyone else, he might have smiled just a little at the '0,1,2,3' of the time; however, the time had no bearing on the context of a text message. The world's only Consulting Detective did not smile at such stupid things, such things didn't interest him.

The text was from Mycroft. Now _that_ interested him.

Mycroft _hated_ texting, much preferring to actually speak to a person, rather than send typed words. The oldest Holmes sibling especially _loathed_ the butchered English language that texters tapped away fluently, not to mention the apparent abuse of punctuation to make smiley faces. Therefore, Mycroft texting _anyone_ was a feat in itself; texting Sherlock was practically unheard of (unless both Sherlock and John were ignoring his calls, or due to dental issues); and texting at this time of night was _extremely_ out of character - Mycroft liked to get at least eight hours of sleep every night.

**Wake Dr. Watson. Coming to 221B. ETA 20 minutes. Strip your bed and put clean sheets on it.**

**MH.**

"Very interesting." Sherlock mused aloud, climbing out of his bed. Apparently Mycroft was injured, heading this way, and required a bed for the night. Odd.

_Very odd_.

There was no point in replying to the text, so Sherlock half-tucked the phone into the drawstring waistband of his pyjama bottoms (for a lack of somewhere else to put it); and pulled on his silky dressing gown before leaving the room and climbing the pitch-black stairs to John's room in silence.

"I'm _missing_ something about this, think, think, _think_." Sherlock mumbled, continuing to wrack his brain as he flicked John's bedroom light on, watching as the ex-soldier literally _leapt_ out of his neatly made bed and stood to attention next to it in nothing but a pair of boxers and a thread-bare t-shirt. After a second of realising where he was, John winced and rubbed his shoulder through the t-shirt, glaring at Sherlock.

"What. The. Bloody. Hell. Do. You. Think. You. Are. Bloody. Doing. You. Bloody. _Muppet_." he hissed.

"Most people say good morning." Sherlock said, cheerily.

"Most people don't go from sleeping peacefully to being woken up by having all the lights switched on!" John's stance relaxed and he quickly re-made his bed before sitting down on it.

"Mycroft will be here in around twenty minutes. I have no idea how long his text took to write or to send and be received by myself, so there is very likely even less time to spare. He is specifically asking for _'Dr. Watson'_." Sherlock said, turning and leaving the room.

"And of all the doctors in London, he has to have you wake _me_ up?" John questioned, yawning widely while reaching under his bed for his warmest socks, he glanced at his watch on the bedside table. "Oh, for crying out loud, its barely gone half-one in the morning!"

The doctor sighed, stood and retrieved his medical bag from the dresser opposite his bed. Most of the bag's contents had been a 'congratulations on your new job' from Sherlock, upon him being appointed a permanent full-time position at the GP surgery. Though, as he ran a mental check-list of what he might need to treat Mycroft, John strongly suspected that Sherlock had _only_ bought him the kit and the bag so he could pilfer the equipment to use in his experiments.

"Mycroft trusts you, John, which is more than can be said for almost everyone else. He holds you and your skills in high regard. Stop thinking and _hurry up_!" Sherlock called from down the stairs.

"I guess that compliment _almost_ makes it okay to wake me up from some of the best sleep I've had in ages!" John yawned again, deciding that Mycroft would have to put up with seeing a doctor wearing baggy jeans and an extremely comfy, old, threadbare army t-shirt under a baggy jumper, he wasn't getting dressed up at this time in the morning.

"I've put the kettle on for you. You'll no doubt require caffeine." Sherlock shouted up the stairs.

"For God's sake, don't put _anything_ granulated in _any_ mug!" John cried, remembering the gravy-granules-instead-of-coffee-mix-up that had caused poor Mrs. Hudson to violently vomit in their lounge. After stretching his leg and shoulder quickly, the doctor dashed down the stairs to make coffee before Sherlock could.

"It was an honest mistake! And they were in practically the same container! That dreadful cold we both had meant neither of us could smell my error! I _like_ Mrs. Hudson, I wouldn't do that to her on purpose! I didn't _intend to_ make her a mug of _gravy_ with milk and two sweeteners!" Sherlock said with a sulk. He paused, looking out of the kitchen window, suddenly he waved cheerily to someone across the street.

"Who's that you're waving at?" John asked, making two cups of coffee (with _coffee granules_), and cooling his own with cold water so he could drink it straight away. John began to tidy up, the kitchen would have to make do as a make-shift consulting room. He quickly wiped down the kitchen table with disinfectant and set his bag onto it in readiness before draining his mug and washing his hands thoroughly in preparation. He dried his hands on kitchen paper, rather than the towel, following the drying with a squirt of alcohol hand rub.

"I'm waving at whoever Mycroft has watching us this week. He's obviously very agitated, oh, and recently divorced." Sherlock said, pulling a small pair of binoculars from the knife-and-forks drawer to get a better look at their voyeur. "He's living back at his parents house - yes, obvious from the folds in his shirt. Divorced less than three months. It wasn't his decision, and I suspect his ex-wife has already moved in with her lover."

"Watching _us_? Not just _you_ then? I thought you just said he trusts me?" John replied, not bothering to comment on Sherlock's observations of this member of Mycroft's surveillance team.

"Oh, Mycroft trusts you, but it doesn't prevent him from keeping an eye on you. He's had people watching _me_ for years… I used to play chess against one of his little watchmen, until Mycroft found out - I haven't seen Brian since."

"That seems harsh." John replied.

"I know! And I was only _one_ move away from checkmate too! It had been such a challenging game, it had lasted weeks!" Sherlock complained, replacing the binoculars in the drawer.

"That's not _quite_ what I meant, Sherlock." John said, shaking his head.

"Drink up, Doctor, there's a large black car with blacked-out windows approaching at forty-three miles per hour in a thirty-zone; and it is parking on double yellow lines. Mycroft's here." Sherlock turned his back to the window, as if disinterested.

"There's someone with him. A woman. Mycroft's helping her our of the car. I don't think its 'Anthea' - or whatever her name really is. Too young to be her."

"What?" Sherlock breathed, turning quickly back to the window, his face drained of colour, "Oh God. Thalia." He ran from the kitchen in the direction of the front door. John followed, watching as Sherlock dashed out into the street to support the woman from her other side; she screamed in pain as he touched her.

"Sherlock! Let go of her arm! You're hurting her! Let's just get her inside! You carry the blanket, its hindering her at the moment." Mycroft snapped, helping the badly limping young woman across the road. Sherlock hovered around them, clinging to the pale blue fleece blanket with a white-knuckled grip.

"What happened?" John asked as soon as the door was closed, working seamlessly with Mycroft to carefully get the young woman into 221B as quickly as they could.

"I heard a scream, is everything… oh goodness! What _happened_ to you, Dearie?" Mrs. Hudson gasped, pulling her dressing gown tight around her as she moved closer to the trembling woman supported between Mycroft and John. Bruises were already darkening the left side of the young woman's face, a small trickle of blood ran from her temple to the collar of her pyjamas.

"People. In the flat. Thieves. Dragged me out of bed and pushed me down the stairs when they realised I was at home." she replied in a croak; she was struggling to breathe, and John needed to see if it was from her injuries, or due to her bravely attempting not to burst into sobs. He could already tell from the way she walked that her left shoulder and back pained her greatly. Her left ankle peaked out from beneath her flannel pyjamas, and had already been strapped up with a bandage.

"Mrs. Hudson, I don't mean to be rude, but I need to get her inside and have a look at her." John prompted, gently pushing the landlady out of their way as he moved past.

"Oh goodness! Of course! I'm getting in the way, aren't I? Just let me know if you need _anything_. You poor mite, I'll be up in a bit with some sandwiches for you all - but _only_ because this young lady is hurt - I'm your _Landlady_, not your Housekeeper." the older woman called, dashing back into her own residence. Mycroft and John continued to slowly help the injured woman up the seventeen stairs into the flat. Sherlock had already dashed past them, and was waiting at the top, twitching and fidgeting with nervous energy.

"Its okay, shhh, its alright, you're safe here." Mycroft soothed, gently ushering her into the kitchen at John's prompt, settling her into a dining chair. Sherlock draped the blanket carefully over her.

"You're going to be fine. John is an excellent doctor, he's patched me up on several occasions." Sherlock said quietly, crouching down by the chair and taking her left hand in his, smoothing his thumb over the back of her knuckles.

"I'm John Watson, I'm a doctor." John introduced himself, pausing as she nodded slightly in reply. "First of all, I need to know your name, how old you are, if you are allergic to anything and if there are any pre-existing medical conditions that I need to know about."

"Thalia Juliet Holmes; twenty-one; allergic to penicillin. No other ailments." Sherlock and Mycroft said in stereo.

"Okay, I wasn't actually talking to _you two_… Thalia, do you want them in the room while I examine you? Its _entirely_ up to you." John asked, she took a deep breath before shaking her head slowly.

"Mycroft, Sherlock - wait outside, please." She gasped. Both Sherlock and Mycroft looked ready to argue with her.

"Right. Both of you. _Out_. We'll call if we need you." John said quickly shooing the brothers from the kitchen and closing the kitchen door quietly.

"I presume that the people who did this are in custody?" Sherlock said, his voice menacing. He walked to the mantelpiece, opened a little wooden box and peeled the backing from the two nicotine patches he'd taken out of it, slapping them onto his arm.

"Oh yes, and they _definitely_ won't consider turning to crime again…" Mycroft said, his voice harsh. He suddenly deflated, sinking heavily onto the sofa, dropping his head into his hands for a moment. Sherlock joined him on the sofa, taking in his brother's appearance.

"Mycroft, is the Ministry of Defence _aware_ that you borrowed a helicopter and its crew to transport our baby sister from Cambridge to London?" Sherlock asked, quite conversationally.

The older brother smiled softly, "I did wonder how long it would take for you to deduce that… Well, they do say that 'ignorance is bliss', well, thank goodness that many people remain _blissfully ignorant _of what I'm capable of." There was a pause, and both brothers turned to the kitchen at the soft cry of pain, listening as John said soothing words and promised that the painkillers would kick in shortly.

"At this time on a Saturday night, you had no chance of being seen at an Accident and Emergency Department within a reasonable time limit. Too many people choking on their own vomit, and other alcohol-related maladies. Not to mention the private hospital you are registered with isn't open to emergencies. I agree that bringing her to Baker Street and John was the best thing to do... I presume, from the passport in your top pocket, that you will be out of the country tomorrow?" Sherlock said, casually taking the passport and plane ticket out of Mycroft's pocket.

"As you can see, I need to be at the airport in _two hours_, I won't be back for five days. I just can't cancel this trip, and believe me - I've got my PA futilely attempting to do just that as we speak… Sherlock, Thalia will need _both_ of you to take care of her until I get back, depending on how bad her injuries are." Mycroft said softly.

"Yes. We'll look after her. Excuse me, I need to change the sheets on my bed, and perhaps make the bed easier to access, most of my papers have ended up around it." Sherlock said, quickly leaving the room.

"At least you'll tidy and change the sheets for Thalia, even if we both know that you _wouldn't_ have done so for me." Mycroft mused, taking a deep breath and leaning back into the sofa, waiting for the doctor's diagnosis.


	2. Diagnosis

**Diagnosis.**

oOo

**I am an amateur author of false name,**

**I borrow worlds of another's fame.**

**I stake no claim on recognised locations,**

**Neither do I own canon situations.**

**I merely come here to spend a while,**

**Reading other's work; writing my own style.**

**I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.**

**I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.**

**I do not mean to step on legal toes,**

**I mean no infringement, I'm friend not foe.**

**So please, do come in, relax, unwind.**

**I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.**

oOo

**Author's Note**:

Apologies for the delay, this chapter required three different re-writes to get it up to scratch; it just wouldn't play fair!

A brief warning: I'm _hinting_ at domestic violence in this chapter - I TRULY don't mean to upset, offend or bring back any bad memories for anybody. And I apologise profusely should I inadvertently manage to do so.

oOo

It was an uncomfortable thirty-two minutes as Sherlock and Mycroft waited for John to finish with their sister, and the brothers were instantly on their feet as the doctor helped her walk over to the sofa and sit down. John didn't say anything as he moved the coffee table closer to her, placed the Union Jack cushion on top of it and carefully put her foot onto the cushion. Her left hand and lower arm were encased in a bandage, and she held the arm protectively across her stomach. The bruises on her face were slowly becoming darker, and the blood had been wiped away to reveal three deep scratches.

"Alright, I'll be right back with something for you, nobody's going to be far away." John said, before leaving the room.

"Sherlock, Mycroft, be careful when you sit down next to her, don't jar her! I'll let you both know what's happening in a minute…" John's voice was a little echo-y as he called down the stairs, "I'm going to make sure she's comfortable first, regardless of you two wanting to know everything. And I'm _only_ going to tell you what I've found out because she's already given me _permission_ to do so. You're family, but she's an adult, and has a right to confidentiality." Sherlock noted the footsteps above them as John walked across his bedroom, opened and closed a drawer, and then left his room, moving back down the stairs.

"His bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired of. I don't like it." Mycroft sneered. "He could at least have the decency to stop and talk to us, rather than shouting down at us from upstairs."

"I'd like to point out that he's not treating _you_. And he's very obviously just removed an item of some sorts from the third drawer down of his dresser - most likely for the use in the _treatment_ of Thalia." Sherlock muttered, crouching down in front of his sister, very gently placing his hand on her right knee.

"He's been perfectly lovely with me, he's a very pleasant person." Thalia rasped, taking short, shallow breaths, trembling. Sherlock pulled a blanket from somewhere, and began to attempt to wrap her up in it.

"We are currently at the bottom of the food chain, as far as John is concerned. And thus, he's not remotely worried about offending either of us, Mycroft. His attention is on _Thalia_, where it _belongs._" Sherlock said, glaring at the eldest sibling.

Microft sighed in defeat, "Of course. As it should be, considering the circumstances."

"Quite." Sherlock said, absolutely having to have the last word.

John returned in a moment carrying what looked to be pieces of a backpack and a car seatbelt. After the doctor clipped it all together and adjusted it, it became obvious that it was in fact a sling.

"Sherlock, your efforts are… erm… considerate… but you've made a right pigs ear of wrapping her up in this blanket!" John chuckled, gently undoing the Consulting Detective's tucks and folds. Thalia even managed a watery smile at Sherlock's obvious pout. Slowly John eased the sling around Thalia, carefully tucking her left arm into it before double checking the straps were at the correct setting. 'WATSON' was written in permanent marker on the inside of the sling. In a flash the blanket was draped carefully over her.

"There you go, that should do the job nicely, Sweetheart. You just need to take it easy for a little while, take painkillers and get some sleep."

"Thank-you, d-doctor." she whimpered, her breath hitching.

"Its okay to cry you know, nobody's going to think any less of you. You've been very brave so far, but its okay if you feel that you need to let it out." John whispered, his tone of voice serious, not condescending. The speech sounded a bit rehearsed, and both brothers wondered how many injured soldiers had heard those words from John Watson.

There was a knock at the flat door, and deciding Thalia didn't immediately require his attention, John moved quietly to let Mrs. Hudson in (it couldn't have really been anyone else at the door). The landlady stood there carrying a silver platter of sandwiches wrapped in clingfilm and a supermarket carrier bag.

"Sorry, for interrupting, I'll just pop these into the kitchen." She whispered, following John to give the siblings some privacy, even in the kitchen they could hear Sherlock speaking quietly, offering the kindest words anyone had heard him utter in a very long time.

"I'm o-o-kay, Sh-Sh-Sherlock." she whispered, her brave façade finally crumpling as she broke down into body-wracking sobs. Mrs. Hudson sank into the recently-vacated dining chair, one hand over her heart, the other covering her mouth as she listened.

"You know, Sherlock's never mentioned having a sister, but they're so similar to look at that she couldn't be anyone else." the landlady whispered. "Oh, the poor thing, is she badly hurt?"

"Without giving any details away, she'll be fine. No major injuries, nothing broken." John said, reassuring Mrs. Hudson and gently giving the older lady a hug.

"Oh, the poor girl! Its terrifying! Absolutely terrifying!" Mrs. Hudson hissed, standing abruptly and pacing, her movements jerky and agitated.

"Erm… Mrs. Hudson?" John prompted, staring at the usually placid landlady as if he'd never seen her before.

"Being dragged from her bed and then thrown down the stairs in the middle of the night! Poor girl must be terrified! She'll be alright, won't she, no… lasting damage?" It was then that John noticed that Mrs. Hudson was rubbing her bad hip and shaking a little. "Please, John - tell me she'll be fine. No bad hips, no trouble walking, no more being frightened all the time…"

"Mrs. Hudson! Look at me! Breathe. Nice deep breaths. Nice and calm… In and out… You're safe, nothing's wrong… Nice deep breaths… Breathe with me, do what I'm doing… That's it, that's better… Nice deep breaths…" John said, getting the older lady to focus on her breathing.

"Oh, I haven't had one of those in a while. You know, you're pretty good at stopping a panic attack, John, that one barely got going." she gasped, once again sinking into the chair, her breaths obvious and rather forced.

"Well, I'm rather familiar with them." John said wryly, crouching down by the chair and taking Mrs. Hudson's hand.

"You know, Mr. Hudson wasn't a very nice person, well, he was when we were first married - but towards the end he wasn't very nice…" she trailed off, staring into the middle distance. In an instant she'd snapped herself out of it, and was seemingly back to normal, if rather teary. "John, is she going to be alright? Please? Tell me she'll be alright! I just _need_ to know she's fine!"

"From top to bottom, and I'm _not_ telling you this - understand?" The older lady nodded, and John sighed in defeat, realising that Mrs. Hudson needed more detail to be reassured.

"She's got a bit of a bump on the head, but she's not concussed; she's bruised right the way down her left hand side, but nothing too deep. Her heart rate and blood pressure are a bit high, but nothing I'm worried about. Her temperature's up too - but again, nothing to be concerned over…"

"Yes, yes, John, but what about her arm, and her _leg_?" Mrs. Hudson prompted, wringing her hands in agitation.

"Her left shoulder and wrist are badly sprained, Nothing's broken. She needs to keep the sling on for four days, just to let things rest, and then she can take it off and use the arm carefully for another few days after that; taking things easy until she can move it pain-free. Her ankle is twisted, but nothing that won't sort itself out, and some nasty bruising on her back…" John said, only to be cut off by Mycroft, who had entered the kitchen.

"I wasn't aware you had X-ray equipment in here." he said, glancing around in apparent disgust.

John looked at the eldest Holmes for a moment, baffled, until his hidden meaning became clear. "Mycroft, I don't _need_ to do an X-ray to tell you that _nothing's broken_. Her wrist is fine, as are her ankle and shoulder. I know the sling looks scary, but _Trust me_, if anything in the region of the glenohumeral, acromioclavicular or sternoclavicular joints _was_ fractured, movement would be _barely_ possible, and the pain would be completely _unbearable_." John paused and glared at him, "I'd also like to remind you that _I_ am the doctor, and not you. She _doesn't_ require X-rays. The pain is severe, but the damage isn't that bad - just be glad that it isn't worse than it is."

"I'd still like her to be seen by someone at the _hospital_ she's registered at, just to be certain that she has _all_ she needs." Mycroft said, glaring at John.

"Mycroft, _they_ won't do an x-ray either - its standard practice to _not_ do them where they're _not_ required. And. One. Is. Not. Required. In. The. Case. Of. Your. Sister. Right now, she needs sleep and painkillers." John said firmly.

"Just to be certain, I've had my PA arrange something for first thing in the morning." Mycroft said, his tone of voice obviously one of finality as he turned to leave the kitchen.

"I've _never_ liked you, young man! Too full of yourself by far. Who offers to _pay_ someone to spy on their _own brother_?" Mrs. Hudson spat, suddenly standing and grabbing onto John's arm in support as she wobbled slightly, her facial expression furious as she admonished Mycroft. You wouldn't have thought that an older lady in a floral nightie and a fluffy dressing gown could actually be so fierce.

"Now, I've _been_ in this poor girl's shoes, and I can tell you now that the poor thing's going to be terrified! What the doctor said she _needs_ is painkillers and rest. And I can tell you now that she also _needs_ the _reassurance _and _love_ from the people who _care_ about her! One of which - and that's _you_ I'm on about, young man - is too busy attempting to have a verbal sparring match with the doctor! A verbal sparring match you won't win, because you don't know what you're on about! I've never liked you, _never_ liked your attitude towards other people. _She's _flesh and blood, and even so you're like this!"

In the living room, Thalia continued to cry, now curled up as best she could into Sherlock.

"Don't be an arse, Mycroft. Its not about what you want. I've already texted your PA to cancel the appointment." Sherlock spat, looking murderous. John wasn't sure if Sherlock's malice was aimed at his brother or at the people who'd done this to his sister - he suspected both, probably with more malice aimed at Mycroft at the moment.

Mycroft bowed his head and took a deep breath in, not looking up before leaving the room, John waited a few moments before returning his attention to Mrs. Hudson again.

"Will she be alright, John?" the landlady asked, wilting a little after her speech to Mycroft, and needing a little help to sit down on the dining chair.

"Overall, everything's painful, but not as bad as it could have been. She's really very lucky. Just bruises and sprains that need time and rest - they'll put themselves right. I've got suitable painkillers here already, so no need for a prescription." John finished and she sighed in obvious relief, as did Mycroft and Sherlock from where they were on the sofa.

"Thank goodness for small mercies. Thank goodness." she breathed, her face brightening as pointed to the tray and began rummaging through the bag.

"Now, I went with cheese sandwiches - I know they say that cheese before bed will give you nightmares, personally I think its just a bit of indigestion. I had a look through my fridge, and all I had for sandwiches was jam, cheese or tuna. Well, jam seemed a bit silly, to me; and people can be really funny with fish, can't they? Not to mention she might be vegetarian or something - though, last I looked, fish was an animal, so I really don't understand how you can be a vegetarian and still eat fish." Mrs. Hudson rambled, and John smiled at her almost instantaneous return to normal.

"So, a platter of cheese sandwiches - and I _remember_ what you said about my cholesterol levels - so its reduced fat cheese with that special margarine with the plant-steri-whatsists in it to stop my cholesterol going up." with a flourish, the clingfilm was carefully removed and placed to one side.

"Now, I brought a few other bits and pieces too." she began again, delving back into the carrier bag, "The lady who had the flat before you two was one of those interior designers, and didn't she put some lovely wallpaper up? I do like that one in the living room… anyway, Cassie was one of those 'healthy people' and she got me into these smoothie things. Now, those painkillers shouldn't be taken on an empty stomach - give you stomach ulcers - but you can't always face eating anything when you're in pain, can you? So, I find that a glass of this smoothie stuff does the job! Oh, and they're on buy-one-get-one-free at the supermarket - so Sherlock's sister can have the free one."

"That's really kind of you, Mrs. Hudson." John said, getting a glass and pouring some of the smoothie into it.

"I've also brought a nice clean towel - because I don't think Sherlock will have got one for her, boys just don't think of things like _that_. And I've brought some of my aromatherapy bath salts - now, I don't know if they really make much of a difference, but I think putting them in a long hot bath eases things a bit; and if they don't, at least they smell really nice." Mrs. Hudson put the towel and a small box in John's hands, and he nodded politely as he put them both down on the table.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, thanks a lot. You've been great." John said, giving her another brief hug.

"Oh, think nothing of it, dearie. Now, I'll just toddle off back downstairs, I don't want to get in the way. Now, you just give me a shout if you need any help with _anything_. Oh, and make sure you eat those sandwiches!"

"We will, Mrs. Hudson, we will." John assured her. The landlady left the kitchen, waving briefly to Sherlock and smiling softly at the exhausted young woman laying mostly on top of him at an awkward angle. Her sobs had stopped, but tears still soaked into Sherlock's silky dressing gown. Her eyes kept dropping, as she fought to stay awake.

"I'll assist you down the stairs, if you'd like, Mrs. Hudson? I need to be making a move, I have a flight to catch." Mycroft said, rising and gently kissing Thalia on the forehead and squeezing Sherlock's shoulder.

"I don't need _any_ assistance! And certainly not from _you_, young man, _thank-you-very-much_!" she snipped, turning on her heel and leaving the flat.

"I can't believe it, you actually managed to _offend_ Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock said, looking disgusted. "I _like_ Mrs. Hudson. And I'd like to remind you that the last person who upset her saw the death penalty."

"Sherlock, _now_ isn't the time." Mycroft said with a sigh, pulling his passport and tickets out of his top pocket, checking them and then replacing them.

"No. Perhaps it isn't." Sherlock said softly, returning his gaze to Thalia.

"I'll attempt to cut this trip short, but I doubt that I can achieve it. Sherlock, John - please take care of her." Mycroft said, crossing the room to the door.

"Don't insult us by thinking that we wouldn't." Sherlock snarled, his grip on Thalia tightening ever-so-slightly.

"That wasn't my intention, Sherlock." Mycroft whispered, leaving the flat and closing the door softly as he did.


	3. Observations  the first

**Observations - the first**.

Author's note:

_Oh gosh_.

This chapter gave me such a headache! I'm not 100% pleased with it, but it's the best I can do. I have tried my hardest to keep Sherlock in character, and I hope I haven't failed miserably in my attempts.

oOo

**I am an amateur author of false name,**

**I borrow worlds of another's fame.**

**I stake no claim on recognised locations,**

**Neither do I own canon situations.**

**I merely come here to spend a while,**

**Reading other's work; writing my own style.**

**I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.**

**I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.**

**I do not mean to step on legal toes,**

**I mean no infringement, I'm friend not foe.**

**So please, do come in, relax, unwind.**

**I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find**.

oOo

After nibbling like a gerbil at a sandwich, and managing a few small mouthfuls of smoothie, Thalia succumbed to sleep through a combination of emotional exhaustion and medication-induced drowsiness. Gently, John carried her to Sherlock's room, ignoring his shoulder's protests as he did so; Sherlock haunted his steps, reaching out to grab Thalia - just in case the doctor's shoulder gave out.

The sling was removed as she was lain down, and a pillow taken from John's bed was put beneath her arm to support it through her sleep. At the doctor's prompting, Sherlock had dashed back into the living room for the Union Jack cushion to elevate her ankle. He returned quickly, thrusting the cushion in John's direction, obviously not trusting himself to not hurt his sister by positioning it himself.

John noted that Sherlock had changed the sheets, pillowcases _and_ the duvet cover, none of them matched, but they were cleanly laundered and smelled faintly of fabric softener. He'd been stunned to see 'hospital corners' on the bed - admittedly untidy, but John smiled at Sherlock's effort. The ex-army doctor just didn't have the heart to re-do what Sherlock had done in a neater fashion, somehow knowing that Sherlock would have taken it as an insult. Instead, John offered Sherlock a gentle smile before leaving briefly for the bathroom, fetching a warm flannel to gently cleanse the tears from Thalia's face.

Finally, he had the chance to have a good look at this woman, rather than just seeing her as a list of injuries to treat.

"I've noticed how you've changed how you look at her, John. What do you see? I'm curious." Sherlock whispered, sitting on the floor next to the bed. All of his previously scattered paperwork was piled neatly on the desk in the corner, leaving several questionable stains on show on the carpet - one was certainly a burn mark.

"She's tall, for a woman - when she stood she was looking me in the eye - that puts her at about 5'6" in flat shoes; but she looks so small when like this. She's thin, but not in an unhealthy manner - she's got a very athletic build, and I'm guessing she's got the same fast metabolism as you…" John said pausing as Sherlock stared at him.

"Keep going, I'm still curious as to what someone _normal_ would see in her." Sherlock prompted, reaching carefully to stroke the back of her bandaged hand with the tips of his fingers.

"Beneath the puffy red eyes and bruising, she's got a lovely face, a little bit on the square side of things - you and her definitely took after someone strongly, but Mycroft took more after someone else, I think."

"You'd perhaps be shocked to hear that Mycroft has Mummy's face and body shape, whereas Thalia and I could be paralleled more to Father. Mummy was always a little bit plump, couldn't burn the calories off as quickly… Mycroft hates that." Sherlock said, chuckling lightly, but not entirely maliciously.

John paused, having another good look before speaking again, "I was going to say something about her hair being very long, even in those two plaits hanging from below each ear, her hair goes to her waist… But now I'm thinking that she was compared to you or your Dad too many times, and perhaps called 'boyish' or something at school. So, she grew her hair really long in an effort to be more feminine…"

"Oh, well done, John! Spot on!" Sherlock said, his face brightening for the first time since Thalia's entrance into the flat. "What gave you _that_ idea?"

"What you said about taking after your Dad… not to mention that when Harry came out, she cut her long hair really short in an attempt to look less… erm… girly. Mum thought it was a sign of self harm or something." John said, shrugging. I thought the opposite might apply here, growing hair long to look _more_ girly. Just a hunch, really."

"A very good theory." Sherlock said, picking up the tasselled end of one of the plaits and rubbing it in his palm. "What else do you see?"

"Well, if you and Mycroft hadn't told me she was twenty-one, I'd have put her at about eighteen, just."

Sherlock grinned and shook his head, "Yes… though, the 'little girl' hairstyle and the pale green flannelette pyjamas with cartoon rabbits on them really _don't_ help her look her age."

"No, they don't. They look warm though - I'm guessing that the students she lives with try to keep costs down by not turning the heating on? We never had enough money when I was in a student flat - we were always cold." John mused.

"Oh! We'll have to have you treat someone more often before a case! You are on _fire_, John!" Sherlock said, still playing with Thalia's hair.

"I'm pretty sure that might violate the Hippocratic Oath _somewhere_…" John paused, ""You obviously love her to bits, but you've never _mentioned_ her… please, don't be offended, but I was wondering…" the doctor stammered.

"You want to know what makes her so special, don't you?" Sherlock asked, gently placing the plait down on the bed before carefully brushing a few little hairs from her forehead.

"Yeah. Everyone's special - but she has to be something _incredible_." John said, earning a confused glance from Sherlock.

"Look, Mycroft barely speaks to you, and _you_ don't make _any_ effort to contact him. You can't be in the same room as each other without squabbling or playing some game of one-upmanship… but the pair of you bent over backwards for her, she spoke and you listened… You two don't do anything for anybody if there isn't a motive behind it - but I think you'd do _everything she asked_." John glanced at Sherlock, who was gently petting Thalia's hair and making tiny shushing noises as she stirred a little in her sleep.

"This makes me angry. She isn't like this, not under usual circumstances. I haven't seen her like this since after Mummy's funeral. Normally, she makes Mycroft and I look perfectly pliable and rather sedentary. Honestly, she's as stubborn as a mule and is _always_ on the move, can't sit still for very long. She's going to get bored rather quickly if she can't go for a walk every day… she's also very _tactile_, always has been, she likes to _touch_ people." Sherlock whispered, sitting back as if to take in her whole appearance, apparently not hearing what John had just said - or choosing to ignore it.

"Touching people is actually _normal_, Sherlock. But she's not walking anywhere far on that ankle for a few days, let's hope she isn't into shooting the walls when she gets bored."

"No, she'll probably just attack my book collection, she bought me a fair few of them." Sherlock mused, "Perhaps a few titles she'll like at arm's length would be a good idea?"

"That's a nice thought, Sherlock… you see what I mean, you're being so - so - thoughtful, selfless, _caring_… I thought you didn't care about anybody - You don't even care about _yourself_! I thought you _only_ cared for the cases! if it wasn't for the squabbling between you and Mycroft, I'd have asked for proof of who you both are! I've never seen you like this! Either of you!" John was obviously baffled at just _what_ was going on, coming up with more questions than answers.

"No. I haven't had a need to be like this for a long time. I thought I _deleted_ how to be like this, but apparently that bit of information on my hard drive had a system's restore function… Being like this is difficult, I'm not very good at it. I don't like failing at something." Sherlock seemed more to be talking to himself now, "Thalia is… precious to both of us. She's all we have left. She's the only one to take us for who we are - with _all_ of our faults. She's the only one who can make us talk to each other like the adults we're supposed to be. Christmas dinners were always so much better with Thalia acting as peacemaker between us, we must have been exhausting."

"I didn't think how you was acting was because of 'big brother syndrome'." John said, not fully understanding where Sherlock was coming from, hoping the Consulting Detective would continue with his cryptic monologe-esque description.

"When we I was young, people always used to say that I was so much like Mycroft, that we were two peas in a pod. I worked so hard to become _better_ than him; in truth, Mycroft is much better at observing and deducing than I - he just doesn't have a _passion_ for it… Thalia… She is perhaps who Mycroft and I should _aspire_ to be. She is… I don't have the words…"

Sherlock looked cross at his failure to put Thalia into words, in his opinion she just _was_.

"She understands emotions; never manipulates anyone; won't lie to anyone. She is… _good_. She observes, but she'd never use what she sees against someone... That's a poor way of telling you."

"Now I think I get it Sherlock… You know, I thought there'd be a lot more to her than meets the eye." John said, smiling gently as he sat on the chair in the corner of Sherlock's room.

"What do you mean, John?" Sherlock asked.

"She's a _Holmes_ - you're all like icebergs - so much more beneath the surface."

"Yes, but Thalia isn't as cold as Mycroft and I can be - or so we've been told. We have both been told we're heartless, but she is _all_ heart. I don't understand how that is. I don't think I ever will understand Thalia. She is _all_ about caring... You're right, I don't care. Caring doesn't help solve a case. I can't care for anyone" Sherlock said, still gazing at her as she slept.

"I don't think you're _that_ bad, you have your moments, Sherlock. You're caring now, you're caring for her." John said, reassuring his flatmate. "And I think you haven't mentioned her because of a little selfish need to keep her to yourself. I understand completely why you don't talk about Mycroft."

"Turning you hand to psychology now, doctor?" Sherlock snorted.

"Just my opinion… I'll sit here a bit and keep an eye on her, then I'll go to bed - there isn't really anything more for me to do."

"What should _I_ do for her?" Sherlock asked, standing from where he'd been sat on the carpet.

"Just be there. Get some sleep yourself, you're a light sleeper - so you'll wake up if she wants you. I doubt she'll wake up before morning - those drugs are pretty powerful, I've got stronger ones, but I don't think she'll need them." John said, yawning.

"Shall I leave the light on? Sometimes you sleep with the light on, after one of your nightmares - would having the light on help? I heard Mrs. Hudson saying how frightened Thalia would be, maybe she'll have nightmares too." Sherlock asked, not meaning to embarrass John about sleeping with the light on, but managing anyway. The doctor quickly quashed his perceived shame, returning his attention back to his patient.

"I think leaving the desk lamp on is good - but move your papers again, just in case they catch fire under the bulb. Maybe leave the curtains open too, I can see the surveillance people from here, there are three of them now. I think they'd be happier if they could see her too. Mycroft's no doubt going to have them reporting in more frequently." John said, giving a little wave to the men across the street.

"Four, the man who appears homeless who is huddled in the sandwich shop doorway is also part of the surveillance." Sherlock said, pointing down at the front door of 'Speedy's'.

"How'd you know that?" John said, "Is it how he's sat? Is it how his clothes are too ragged to be convincing?"

"No, its my former chess partner, Brian. Had circumstances been better, I'd have asked to renew our game. I am glad that he was watching Thalia."

"Try and sleep, Sherlock, but be careful that you don't jar her." John said, gripping Sherlock's shoulder and giving the young woman a firm look over before taking himself back to his room.

"Even though I am tired, I won't be sleeping." Sherlock said, rising to move his papers from beneath the desk lamp before switching it on. Slowly he moved to turn off the main light, sighing as he continued to watch his sister. In silence he moved the chair from the corner of the room, and sat down to keep watch.

His gaze was broken as a blanket was wrapped around him, and a pillow placed in his lap. "I thought I'd better make an attempt at tucking you in too. I don't want Thalia complaining that I'm not taking good enough care of her big brother - call if you need me. Night Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John. And thank you for all you've done; for the blanket from the bottom of your bed; and for both of your good pillows, I know that you favour these two over the others." Sherlock said quietly.

"Don't mention it. I'd have done the same for anyone else." John yawned, definitely heading in the direction of his own bed and sleep. Sherlock continued to sit and watch; after three hours he shuffled the chair even closer to the bed, lay the pillow at Thalia's side, and lay his torso and head down - just for a minute, one little minute…

… John looked in on the siblings at half-past-six, both were sleeping soundly. Neither stirred as he left the room, moving down the stairs to put the kettle on. He'd have to wake Sherlock soon, the Consulting Detective would have one heck of a crick in his neck and back from sleeping in that pose. But for ten more minutes, he'd leave them both in the capable hands of Morpheus.


	4. of Hairlooms and Poltergeists

Author's note: Well… it's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry, life _thoroughly_ got in the way in a very-not-positive manner and my muse vanished. To all those who've prodded, prompted and harassed me for more writing: thank you.

Warnings: canon up and left a while ago.

**I am an amateur author of false name,****  
****I borrow worlds of another's fame.****  
****I stake no claim on recognised locations,****  
****Neither do I own canon situations.****  
****I merely come here to spend a while,****  
****Reading other's work; writing my own style.****  
****I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.****  
****I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.****  
****I do not mean to step on legal toes,****  
****I mean no infringement, I'm friend not foe.****  
****So please, do come in, relax, unwind.****  
****I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.**

* * *

The weekend of her recovery found Thalia mostly asleep or drowsy with painkillers in her brother's bed – Sherlock hovering near-by working on something on his laptop. Periodically John would come in to check on her, but mostly left the two siblings alone. Mrs. Hudson had visited several times; bringing food with her on most of those occasions – still stressing she wasn't their housekeeper. Mycroft however, had managed to earn a few Brownie Points by using _Interflora_ to send the dear woman a bunch of flowers in her favourite shades of purple as a thank-you for helping to take care of the youngest Holmes sibling.

'Anthea' had been by on Sunday afternoon with a pale green leather duffel bag of clothes that had come from Thalia's student flat; as it was the end of the academic year, everything else would be packed and moved to Mycroft's home until Thalia decided what she wanted to do with her degree. Thalia had read _Politics and International Relations _at Cambridge, according to a sneering Sherlock (no more was said on the matter of her academics).

'Anthea' had also left a cardboard gift bag, inside was something wrapped in tissue paper and a little note from Mycroft: _'This is actually your graduation present, but I thought it would be useful to you now. Take care, I'll be back shortly. MH.'_ Thalia hadn't been awake enough to open it yet, but Sherlock had impatiently rifled through the tissue paper and been unimpressed.

Now it was 07:30 on Monday morning; Dr. Watson had his first appointment at 09:03 (John was yet to work out why the computer system at the Surgery came up with the odd times) and neither of the Holmes siblings were awake. Sherlock had slept on the other side of his bed than his sister last night, and John had snapped an adorable picture on his phone of Thalia cuddling into his chest and Sherlock holding one of the tails of her long plaits to his cheek.

John was about to take a sip of tea from the mug in his hand, but a man in a blue silky dressing gown took it out of his hands and consumed it himself. Grumbling, John returned to the kitchen in search of more caffeine.

"I'm sure Thalia's going to be fine today with you – but call me at the Surgery if you need to. She won't be able to walk too far yet, but a short walk to the end of the road and back would be alright. See if you can get her to eat something a bit more filling maybe? A nice bubble bath would probably make her happy too. The painkillers are on the bathroom windowsill; follow the postit notes on them for dosages and times to take them." John said turning to find Sherlock giving a little wave to Brian (one of their watchers) out of the kitchen window.

"I have to go to The Yard today. I have to complete the paperwork from the last case. Is Thalia fit to go with me?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, take a cab and make sure she's sat down when you get there – but I don't foresee an issue – well, not a physical one. I'd watch what they say about her though; I think she's less likely to shrug off an insult than you." John replied, sipping on a new cup of tea.

"Why?" the brother asked.

"Sherlock, she spent years growing her hair four-feet-long because people said she was 'boyish' – I don't think she has your non-reaction status." John said, popping six crumpets under the grill for the three of them; he'd have _liked_ to have a bowl of porridge, but the pyrex bowl he used to make it in currently contained the tell-tale blue of aqueous copper sulphate solution.

"Hmmm…. Anderson and Donovan wouldn't _dare_ say a harsh word against her – between Mycroft and Myself we'd _ruin them_. Trust me on that." Sherlock said, quite menacingly.

Both Sherlock's and John's phones took that opportunity to buzz with a text_: Please can you help me down the stairs? Please can one of you brush my hair, it hurts to do it myself. TH._

"Sure, but I'm not qualified to do the second bit." John said, showing Sherlock the message before moving back up the stairs. Sherlock reached into his dressing gown pocket for his own mobile sending: _I'M REQUESTING THAT FAVOUR YOU SAID YOU OWED ME. BE AVAILABLE AT 10:00 TODAY. SH_.

* * *

At 09:55, Sherlock assisted Thalia out of a black cab to stand in front of '_Hairloom_', a small hairdressing salon with a shocking pink window frame and sign. The bruise on her face was blackening and looked truly awful, her ankle pained her considerably – yet John had instructed her to try not to limp, and her shoulder had screamed at her while Mrs. Hudson had helped her dress this morning (even if John hadn't been remotely phased at having to dress a young woman, Mrs Hudson had insisted it 'wasn't proper' and told the Doctor to shoo).

"_You_ could have just brushed it, you know." Thalia groused, slowly entering into the salon and having her brother gently help her sit down on an equally shocking pink leather sofa near a shelf of well-thumbed hair style magazines.

"Carl owes me a favour, plus the last time I brushed your hair your knee found its way to rather sensitive places – and I'd rather avoid a similar experience if at all possible." Sherlock said.

"I was _six_, and it wasn't intentional for me to hurt you!" Thalia hissed, moving to fold her arms over her chest and crying out sharply in pain.

"Keep still, baby sister, keep still. Carl will be here in a minute… well, seconds, here he comes now. He has new shoes, and a... pet rabbit, angora or an angora-cross breed."

"Sherlock! Darling! Mwah Mwah!" Carl said, grabbing the Consulting Detective by the shoulders and kissing him on both cheeks. "I wondered how long it would be before I got to run my fingers through these curls! I must say, _that hat_ did _not_ do you any favours in the newspaper last week! Ugh!"

From her seat by the window, Thalia quietly observed. If it wasn't for the baby pink dress shirt and magenta waistcoat with silver scissors embroidered on the back, Carl would simply fade into the background. He was of medium height, medium build and somewhere in the mid-thirties. His hair, though styled impeccably, was mousy brown; and his eyes a non-descript grey. Essentially he was 'average'. He was definitely a supporter of gay rights (most probably gay himself, but Thalia never assumed until she had more evidence) due to the Rainbow wristband on his left wrist. A diamond-studded large crucifix and a silver-metal St. Christopher medallion hung around his neck. Her deductions were cut short as Sherlock made introductions.

"Carl, this is my sister, Thalia. Thalia, this is Carl Hughes – a former client and an excellent Hair _Technician_."

"Oh, you remembered my preferred job title! Isn't he good!" Carl gushed turning to look at Thalia, "Good God and the Angels, sweetie! What happened to your face?! You poor sausage!"

"Some rather stupid men broke into my Sister's home and threw her down the stairs… don't worry, they won't be so foolish again." Sherlock said, taking a seat next to Thalia.

"How do you do? Thank you for fitting me in at such short notice, I can't brush my own hair at the moment – and Sherlock won't do it for me." Thalia said, offering her right hand to shake, her left still in the sling.

"Anything for this man! He saved my business! My ex was being a… well, you don't use words like that in front of a lady… even though I'd changed the locks after I kicked his adulterous backside out, he managed to get a copy of my key and was moving things around – I thought I had a poltergeist! Well, in a panic I called in Father Michael – there's a lovely church just around the corner that don't want to stone me for being Gay – anyway, I asked him to do one of those exorcisms to get rid of the ghostie! If anything after that things got _even worse_. In a panic I tried Sherlock… he caught my ex red-handed in the middle of the night moving my things around, and _also_ caught him faffing with my accounting software on my computer!"

"How awful! Is everything all right now?" Thalia asked, genuinely concerned.

"Oh, everything is absolutely _fine_ darling, he's spending some time in Her Majesty's hospitality for fraud – now, what am I doing today? How about you take your coat off and let me have a look at your hair? Wasn't this in Vogue a few months ago?"

Gently, Sherlock helped Thalia slip out of her new coat – a cape-type-garment made from deep forest green wool with a silk lining that had been her gift from Mycroft. Sherlock didn't like it, but his sister had been very pleased with the present.

"My other brother gave it to me as an early graduation gift, and it is very similar to the one from Vogue, but definitely a British designer, rather than French – Mycroft's not a fan of the French at the moment. I'm not sure what they've done to upset him this week."

"Oh, your arm too, poor lamb. I hope those rotters got their just desserts!" Carl seethed, moving to carefully hang the coat/cape up on a hanger in a little wardrobe in the corner (to protect the fabric of his clients' outer garments from flying hairs and products). He returned to the Holmes' and stopped, "Oh wow – what a treat! Is all this hair your own? I'm a bit of a long hair specialist myself – but I don't often see anything this long without it being part-extensions, and I've usually put those extensions in myself."

"Of _course_ it's all real." Sherlock snipped – assisting Thalia over to one of the chairs in front of a mirror (_another_ pink chair).

"Please tell me I'm not going to be cutting too much of this off? It's absolutely lovely! Women pay me quite ridiculous sums of money to get hair like this!" Carl said, gently teasing open the two plaits it had been in for days and beginning to carefully sweep a wide-toothed-comb through the tresses.

"I haven't been able to wash or brush it over the weekend – so a wash and blow-dry would be lovely." Thalia said, glad that Carl was being so gentle and avoiding the knock to the back of her head.

"A pleasure! What products do you usually use? You have such _lovely_ condition – though, I'd like to perhaps take off an inch to get rid of these split ends, you don't need any treatments on it…"

At this point, Sherlock became uninterested in the conversation; he unceremoniously lay down and spread himself over the pink leather sofa and began to think. His hands steepled under his chin; one eye occasionally glancing over to where his sister's black locks were slowly being coated in foam. The other two stylists, (both women; both unhappily married; one having an affair with the newsagent; the other dieting in an attempt to bring back her pre-children figure to entice her disinterested husband) entered the shop, they spoke to Sherlock (and received no reply) before getting ready for their first appointments of the day.

* * *

"Carl, I _need_ to get a business card from you – I'd happily pay to have this done weekly!" Thalia enthused, as the Hair Technician pulled a comb through her now washed, dried, straightened and snipped hair.

"Oh darling, you're so precious! Here's a card – try and book though. I managed to fit you in this morning, but I can't always guarantee a spot. I've been getting quite busy since it was in the local paper about Sherlock helping me out – he's ever so good for business." Carl leaned in to whisper, "But because I still think I owe your Brother, I'll do your hair at a discount – but don't go spreading that one, shhhhhh."

"I'll _definitely_ book! I feel so much better! Thank you!" Thalia said, kissing the man on the cheeks as he did the same to her.

"Ah, you look much happier – and no pain was inflicted upon me in the process." Sherlock teased, helping his sister back into her coat/cape. Carl gently flipped her hair over the fabric and sighed contentedly at a job well done.

"Thank you again, Carl!" Thalia said, leaving the shop and directly being helped into a taxi again.

"Scotland Yard, please." Sherlock said, picking up a lock of his sister's hair and bringing it to his nose.

"SHERLOCK! Stop trying to guess the chemical composition of the shampoo by sniffing me! You should have just read the bottle!"


	5. Observations the Second

******I am an amateur author of false name,  
****I borrow worlds of another's fame.  
****I stake no claim on recognised locations,  
****Neither do I own canon situations.  
****I merely come here to spend a while,  
****Reading other's work; writing my own style.  
****I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.  
****I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.  
****I do not mean to step on legal toes,  
****I mean no infringement, I'm friend not foe.  
****So please, do come in, relax, unwind.  
****I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.**

* * *

**Observations, the second**.

Sherlock and John coming-and going from Scotland Yard was a regular occurrence, yet Sherlock and _a woman_ arriving at the reception desk had caused quite a stir; by Lestrade's glass-walled office, there was already a small crowd waiting as the pair slowly arrived.

"They've cloned The Freak and changed him into a _girl_." Donovan muttered as Sherlock gently escorted his sister into the office and helped her settle into a chair.

"'_The Freak'_?" Thalia hissed, turning her bruised face to the other woman, earning a quiet gasp from the onlookers. "He is my_ brother_, and I don't appreciate your tone. You're Sally Donovan, I've heard a _lot_ about you, very _little_ of it was positive." Before Lestrade could close the door to his office, both Donovan and Anderson had also entered the small room. The door remained open by a few inches, a small audience outside.

"What happened to your face?!" Donovan asked, choosing to ignore Thalia's previous words.

"Oh God, do you need a doctor? A first aid kit? Let me help with your coat." Lestrade said, finally getting over the shock of a 'female Sherlock' and noticing the bruises. Sherlock peeled away the cape to reveal the sling, crouching down at Thalia's knee and glancing up at her.

"Some rather stupid individuals broke into my Sister's student flat and pushed her down the stairs – don't worry, they are in custody." Sherlock said, rising and moving to take a seat behind Lestrade's desk. "I am here to complete the required paperwork."

"I am as well as can be expected, and I am under the care of Dr. Watson, Inspector. Thank you for your concern." Thalia added with a pained smile.

"Sherlock's never mentioned a sister before… would you like a cup of tea, rather than a first aid kit?" Lestrade said, simply handing Sherlock the required forms and watching as he pulled an ultra-fine-tipped permanent marker from his inner jacket pocket. It was as if the Consulting Detective thought that if he didn't use permanent markers, that The Yard would modify his statements.

"Oh, I'm not thing too special." She said with a flick of her now shiny hair, "I'd love a cup please."

"White, no sugar." Sherlock said, not looking up from his writing.

"Since when do _you_ not take sugar? " Anderson said, confused.

"_I_ have sugar, but my sister doesn't. White with two sugars for myself, Lestrade." Sherlock said, writing at a steady pace. One of the other on-lookers moved to the little kitchenette in the office to provide the required refreshments at Lestrade's nod.

"So, what are you doing with _him_ then, if you're hurt? _I_ wouldn't trust him to take care of a goldfish." Donovan snipped, leaning against the glass wall with her arms folded in a defensive position. Sherlock outwardly demonstrated no signs of noticing; in contrast, Thalia bristled.

"My brother is an _excellent_ man, whom happens to share lodgings with a very _capable doctor_. Never have I come to harm in my brother's presence; and this _isn't_ the first time Sherlock has watched over me whilst I recover. I find your attitude rather caustic, Sergeant." Thalia replied, glaring at the other woman from her chair.

"Who uses words like _that_?" Anderson whispered.

"Ah! Tea!" Lestrade said, taking the opportunity of the arrival of hot drinks to diffuse the tension in the little room. He carefully placed the mug in Thalia's hand, making sure she had a good grip before putting one close to Sherlock on his desk. Lestrade took the other available seat next to the youngest Holmes.

"Thank you, this is lovely." Thalia said, taking a sip.

"Seriously, Sherlock has _never_ mentioned having a sister; but I've had a few… _encounters_ with your _other_ brother." Lestrade said, taking a good look at the woman.

"There's _three_ of them? A _family_ of _Freaks_?" Donovan whispered to Anderson, earning a confused shrug in reply.

"It has probably never come up in conversation, I'm not that interesting." Thalia said, accepting a chocolate digestive from the packet Lestrade retrieved from his desk drawer, just managing to skirt the package past Sherlock without letting him grab one.

"Oh, there's something about you… you're a Holmes – there has to be something." Anderson began, looking Thalia up and down before speaking again, "I'd say you were about eighteen or so, probably a model – you're stick thin and tall; you've got this funny little walk and you came in looking like you own the place, all 'head back, shoulders straight'. Look at your hair – only people who spend hours-and-hours in front of the mirror on a regular basis look like that! …Your husband has to be away, it's the only reason you're with _him_ in the first place; because of your left arm being hurt, you've got your wedding and engagement ring on your right hand – hubby must be loaded, you've half a diamond mine on there!" There was a brief pause, "A bit young to be married, aren't you? But I guess those from your set do things like that – probably have a good pedigree under you."

"ANDERSON! Mention my sister _again_ in the same sentence as something required for Crufts and it will be the _last_ thing you do!" Sherlock snapped, standing and glaring at the Forensic Scientist. "As per usual, you couldn't be more _wrong_ if you tried! I can't believe they let _you_ near crime scenes! Idiot."

"Okay everyone, let's calm down. Anderson, that was rude and uncalled for." Lestrade said, cutting in before Sherlock went into 'big brother' mode and physically lunged for the other Scientist. High functioning sociopath or not, big brothers generally didn't take kindly to their little sisters being insulted.

"Apologies." He said, not sounding remotely sincere. Donovan smirked.

There was silence for a few minutes, only the breathing of the occupants and the sounds of tea-sipping daring to break the tension.

"Do you mind if I have a try? Lestrade said, taking a closer look at the young woman. She sighed in resignation and nodded once.

"Right, you mentioned a student flat was broken into, that puts you at somewhere between nineteen and twenty-one, assuming you're not doing post-graduate work. I'm guessing Cambridge; there was a small article on the BBC news website saying that opportunist thieves going after students packing up for the holidays had been caught. Your vocabulary certainly isn't something your average young woman would use, so you're probably studying something where the spoken word is important."

"You've said about yourself that you're 'nothing interesting' – so I doubt you're a model, you've just got really good posture, and a bit of a limp you're compensating for." Lestrade took a breath and Thalia gave him a small smile, "I'm pretty certain you're _not_ married. Those rings aren't actually _yours_, you just wear them, which is why they are on your right hand, not your left. Perhaps your Grandmother's, they're quite old-fashioned and heavy set; they're also too big for you. They're really clean, so you look after them, your Grandmother meant a lot to you… Donovan did have a bit of a point – Sherlock isn't known for being the most… caring… of individuals, so whomever would normally be taking care of you in such a situation isn't here."

"Reasonable, Lestrade, _much_ better than Anderson – but only scratching the surface." Sherlock said, capping the pen and gathering up the papers he'd written. It had barely taken fifteen minutes for him to put his thought process and actions onto the pages. John would take much longer to romanticise it for his blog.

"I'm Thalia Juliet Holmes, I'm twenty-one years old and yes, I did attend Cambridge; I've done a fair amount of arguing and debating on my course, so my vernacular has come on leaps and bounds. I've never modelled anything in my life, and have _no_ intentions to do so; I did however, visit a salon this morning – I haven't been able to wash or brush my own hair since I was hurt; Carl did a lovely job." She paused and glared at Anderson, "I am _not_ married, and the rings were Mummy's– Mycroft, my eldest brother. has Daddy's wedding ring. Mycroft is away on business; in his absence Sherlock and John have been taking excellent care of me – Sherlock's not so bad when you know him as well as I do." She turned and smiled gently at her brother, who returned the soft expression before schooling his features. He unceremoniously handed Lestrade the papers before draining his mug of tea.

"Why have _you_ got your _Mum's_ wedding rings?" Donovan asked.

"They've _died_, haven't they? Your parents? You've been speaking about them in the past tense… I'm sorry." Lestrade said.

"There was a car accident; they died upon impact when a drunk-driver ploughed into them, Thalia was twelve at the time." Sherlock said, assisting Thalia into her cape. Lestrade helped in getting her onto her feet.

"Thank you, Gregory." Thalia said.

"_Just Greg_, only my Mum calls me Gregory – and usually because I've done something wrong." He said with a wink, earning a small melodic chuckle for his efforts.

"I thought it was George?" Sherlock commented.

"You've swiped my ID from my pocket enough times! Surely you read it!" Lestrade snipped.

"You had also managed to conveniently wear out the printing over your name so that only the G was visible. Judging by the width of the rubbing, there had to be either a 'y', 'g' or 'j' – an attempt to conceal the 'tail' of the letter. George was my best guess. I'm not good with names, I had to get hold of John's birth certificate to learn his middle name." Sherlock commented. "Shall we go, Thalia, Molly sent me a text – she has something for me to collect from St. Barts – if you're up for another visit?"

"I could do with some painkillers first, Sherlock, my arm and ankle are really causing me some grief now."

"Doctor's orders, you need to wait another forty minutes and also eat something before more tablets – we can stop and have lunch after visiting the morgue; I know a place that does excellent fish and chips?" Sherlock replied, putting on his own coat and offering his arm.

"Greg, it was lovely to meet you, thank you for your hospitality. Sherlock has spoken quite highly of you." Thalia said, slowly walking as best she could with her brother. "I haven't had fish and chips in ages, it sounds nice."

"Well, it was nice to meet you too, take care and feel better soon. I'll escort you both out." Lestrade said, turning back to Donovan and Anderson in his office, "Don't you have work to do?"

The puzzled on-lookers (including Donovan and Anderson) scrambled back to their work, watching the siblings walk away.

"That one is going to be trouble. _Serious trouble_." Donovan said at last.

"What makes you say that?" Anderson replied.

"She isn't like him – not a psychopath – more normal. She's more _dangerous_ than he is because she _understands_ the world, rather than just _deducing_ it."

"What harm could she be? Sherlock's never mentioned her, so she can't be _that_ good." Anderson said, a little sore that his own observations had been so off the mark.

"I don't _know_ – but she's not someone to mess with. There's a lot of spine behind the pretty face and the long hair. I need coffee after that meeting, there's _something_ about her that has the hairs on the back of my neck standing up."

"It's probably the lack of coffee making your hair stand on end, caffeine withdrawal." Anderson said, turning and walking away to his own department, leaving Sally Donovan to ponder Thalia Holmes as she watched the kettle boil.


	6. Corpses, Yoga and Soup

**I am an amateur author of false name,**

**I borrow worlds of another's fame.**

**I stake no claim on recognised locations,**

**Neither do I own canon situations.**

**I merely come here to spend a while,**

**Reading other's work; writing my own style.**

**I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.**

**I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.**

**I do not mean to step on legal toes,**

**I mean no infringement, I'm friend not foe.**

**So please, do come in, relax, unwind.**

**I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.**

* * *

**Corpses, Yoga and Soup**

The trip to St. Bartholomew's hospital had been uneventful, the siblings silent in the back of the taxi after Sherlock had given their destination; the driver talkative enough to compensate for both of them. Sherlock gently guided Thalia to the back entrance to the morgue, where funeral directors parked their hearses when collecting their charges. The doors were built like fire-doors and only opened outwards; Sherlock sent a text to Molly asking to be let in.

"Sherlock, you're not supposed to use this door – but then again you're not even supposed to be in the morgue at all… oh hello!" Molly said, opening the door and spotting Thalia. "Oh God, what happened to you? Come in, I'll find you a chair. My examination tables are free if you need to lay down ."

"Thalia, this is Dr. Molly Hooper; Molly, this is my Sister, Thalia Holmes." Sherlock said, supporting Thalia as she hobbled in, "Thalia was attacked at home over the weekend by thieves who broke into her student flat."

"I can see the resemblance… Sherlock's never mentioned you. I'm guessing John has been looking after you? He's a really good Doctor, I trust him. Are they locked up, the robbers?" Molly said, dashing off and returning wheeling a desk chair over to the other woman, helping her sit down. "Feet up." She instructed, pushing the chair to behind her paperwork-strewn desk in the corner so the other woman didn't have to walk any further.

"I have discovered that not many of Sherlock's friends know about me. But I'm not offended. I have often pretended not to be related to either of my brothers when they get embarrassing. And yes, John has been excellent and the criminals are in custody. I'm content with the chair – I don't really want to lie on an autopsy table until I'm well-and-truly dead." Thalia said, smiling at the pathologist.

"Do you want a tea or coffee?" Molly offered.

"No thank you, Inspector Lestrade provided a cup not too long ago." Thalia replied, Sherlock already off opening the fridges to look at the corpses.

"None of them have donated their bodies to science – so they're off limits Sherlock; they are in pretty poor shape – a nasty pile up on the loop yesterday, two more still in ICU." Molly said, not even bothering to turn around to watch what the Consulting Detective was up to, she was well aware of his antics.

"Dr. Hooper, may I ask you a question?" Thalia said, tugging her coat/cape more snugly around her (the morgue was cold to slow decomposition).

"Of course, but call me Molly." The pathologist smiled.

"Molly, is your yoga instructor any good? I'll be moving back to London and could do to find somewhere." Thalia asked, the other woman startled momentarily before shaking her head at the question, the Holmes brothers had said much _stranger _(and insulting) things after taking one look at her.

"Vicky is lovely – I can never remember her 'yoga name' that she got from the time she spent in India. It's a really small class and I enjoy it. I love how I don't think for the time I'm there. If you give me your number, I'll text the details." Molly said, reaching into her lab coat for a pen and a small notebook. She turned the page from her completed and crossed-out shopping list before handing it over to the other woman.

"If you can't get hold of me, text Sherlock – or vice versa." Thalia said, handing back the paper, "A whole chilli, not chopped, would really give that soup you're going to try and cook an edge – and will unblock your sinuses."

"How did you… you worked that out from my shopping list?" Molly paused, "So I don't chop the chilli, just throw it in as it is?"

"Cooking, what a bore." Sherlock chipped in, "I am visiting the laboratory, Thalia, will you be alright left with Molly?" he said, already moving towards the door.

"If Dr. Hooper doesn't mind keeping me company; I don't want to interrupt more than I already have. I believe she's ready to leave after working through the night."

"Oh, no trouble, the autopsies are all done, I'm just evading a rainforest of paperwork for something else before I go home; I swapped with a colleague who left it too late to put in a holiday form, so yes, I've had the night shift." Molly said with a smile. Wheeling over another chair as Sherlock left for the laboratory. "Who did your hair, it looks lovely!"

"Sherlock introduced me to someone who used to be a client; he thought he had a poltergeist, but it was actually his former boyfriend…"

* * *

Sherlock returned to the morgue half an hour later, his phone clamped to his ear and a long, cardboard box under his arm; Mike Stamford had held back some equipment that was marked for the bin as it was replaced with new items. The Detective wasn't interested in whatever the two women were jabbering on about; but Thalia's genuine smile and Molly's relaxed posture told him that they were comfortable in each other's presence.

"Lestrade, don't you have a brain in your head at all?... I _can't_… I don't want to leave Thalia on her own… no, she isn't 'into' dead bodies like I am… John is inconvenienced by patients… I am aware he is a doctor…"

"I'm currently sat in a morgue, and no harm has come to me because of the corpses, Sherlock." Thalia chipped in, "And I am old enough to take care of myself – I have been for a long time."

"They're all in the fridges – but I don't think you'd want to have a look to be honest… You know, you can come back to my flat, if you like, help me make this soup, if you like?" Molly said, looking hopeful.

"I like." Thalia said with a soft smile, "But my painkillers are at 221B, and I could really do to take some now."

"Erm… I can meet you at 221B with the ingredients?" Molly compromised.

"I don't think it is safe to cook in the 221B kitchen without John present... Sherlock substitutes kitchen utensils for laboratory apparatus." Thalia said with a grimace.

"Maybe Mrs. Hudson would let us take over her kitchen? She's really nice." Molly mused aloud.

"Here, treat yourself to lunch, and take a cab." Sherlock said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a crisp twenty and ten pound note. "Will you be alright, Thalia?"

"We're _both_ modern independent women, Sherlock, we'll be fine – go solve the case. Do you want some lunch saving, seeing as you're paying? Should we get something for John too?" Molly said, tidying her desk and helping Thalia to rise to her feet.

"Mycroft said to take care of you; John said to take care of you." Sherlock said.

"We're quite capable as individuals, and I'm sure that combined both Molly and I will be perfectly alright." Thalia said, awkwardly standing on one tip-toe to kiss his cheek, hugging him with her good arm. "Go solve the case; and perhaps upset Donovan and Anderson on my behalf – _pedigree_, indeed! I understand _perfectly_ why you deride them. Say hello to Greg for me, I like him."

"I'll be there Lestrade, text me the address." The Consulting Detective said into his phone, hanging up without waiting for a reply. "Who's Greg?"

"Inspector Lestrade!" both ladies chorused, before looking at one another and almost collapsing with giggles.


	7. The Skinner

**Author's note**: I hope I don't make anyone upset with this chapter – I have tried to be vague in the descriptions and not too graphic. I apologise if I cause distress, it is not my aim to do so. Nope, I do not want to consider where my Muse has been to come up with the idea of the crime.

**I am an amateur author of false name,**

**I borrow worlds of another's fame.**

**I stake no claim on recognised locations,**

**Neither do I own canon situations.**

**I merely come here to spend a while,**

**Reading other's work; writing my own style.**

**I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.**

**I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.**

**I do not mean to step on legal toes,**

**I mean no infringement, I'm friend not foe.**

**So please, do come in, relax, unwind.**

**I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find**

* * *

**The Skinner**

The small building where a little courier operated from had a white forensic tent erected on a small grassed area by the front door. Donovan stood by the entrance, her hand over her mouth and looking decidedly unwell.

"This one is _nasty_, Freak, I think even a heartless git like you'll be affected by this; then again, it's _you_ so maybe not." She said, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. The uniformed officer guarding the door reached over and rubbed her back in a soothing manner (Sherlock observed that the man was close to retirement and was a father of four with nine grandchildren – his paternal attempt at comfort wasn't really helping Donovan's rebelling stomach).

It was a grizzly scene that Sherlock observed as he attended the crime scene; Lestrade looking sickened and baffled simultaneously as the Consulting Detective was led in by a different uniformed officer.

"One office clerk arrived at half-past seven this morning; trying to get ahead with her work. She noticed the pool of blood seeping from under the door of the stationary cupboard and tried to open it – it was locked from the inside. She was worried and called the security guard; he couldn't open the door either and they called the police and an ambulance. The police broke the door down to get in… the body hasn't been moved yet. The poor clerk and the security guard are in a bit of a state."

"Skinned. Skinned _alive_, I do believe – judging by the state of clotting; the post-mortem will be able to confirm that." Sherlock said after his initial glance at the scene. "By the build, I'd say male, but the genitalia is absent, as are the eyes and tongue... where is the skin? The clothing?"

"We haven't found the skin, or the missing anatomy, or the clothes. Nothing." Lestrade answered.

"We have a couple of theories on the missing private parts. Firstly, and most probable – it is an attack with a sexual motive. Secondly: it was too difficult to… erm… work around that area and The Skinner simply cut those bits off." Anderson said, dressed in his blue disposable boiler suit, his face grim as he continued to take photographs of the scene. "No clothing, no personal artifacts, nothing but the body in the room."

"The second theory is less likely, each finger and toe have been carefully dealt with. The removal of the eyes and tongue as of _yet_ do not make sense. The personal possessions have been removed to prevent easy identification. Obviously, there are no facial features or fingerprints." Sherlock said, ignoring the body and moving on.

"It's going to be a minimum of forty-eight hours before the lab have a DNA profile – but at least there is a lot of DNA available for them to work with, rather than an odd hair or something less-easy." Anderson said, continuing to take pictures.

"Which gives The Skinner _two extra days_ to run." Lestrade groused.

"Greg, this isn't 'CSI Miami' on the telly – we _can't_ get DNA results in five minutes in the real world! Forty-eight hours is only possible with good quality DNA and the lab dropping everything else to run the tests. It could take them longer, we don't have much choice but to wait."

Sherlock slipped on a pair of gloves before turning his back on the body and examining the door locking mechanism and the battered door. "This room was previously used for the storage of high-value items; hence the door locking from the inside and the one-way mirror glass panel in the door – someone on the inside can see out, but someone on the outside cannot see in."

"It used to be the cash office of the prior owners – but it became the stationary cupboard for the courier company, they don't store anything here – they pick things up and move them on. Mostly things like business contracts or small things that can be delivered by motorbike. They've a few vans for bigger things too." Lestrade supplied.

"The room is eight feet square. No windows. The only door was locked from the inside. How did The Skinner get out after doing this?" Anderson chipped in.

"The Skinner _had_ to have left when the police opened the door." Sherlock said, turning to Lestrade.

"After finding the body, the first officer on the scene didn't let _anyone _in or out of that room until our guys arrived. He didn't go past the threshold himself. He was making sure the scene was preserved, and he had to look after the people who found the body." Lestrade defended his colleagues.

"Anderson! How many members in your forensic team today?" Sherlock asked, bending down to examine the carpet near the shelving.

"What? There's five of us here: Me, Mike, Steve, Jess and Penny. Why? What do you want to know that for?" Anderson answered.

"We must speak to the security guard, we need to _count_ how many forensic scientists entered or left the building… look here, all of the shelving has been recently moved, you can tell from the indentations on the carpet. The Skinner has adjusted the position of the shelving and was hiding behind the door, waiting for the opportunity to leave."

"Hiding _and_ playing fancy dress?" Lestrade asked, unimpressed by what Sherlock had just said.

"As Anderson said, it isn't 'CSI Miami' – which is a truly dreadful misinterpretation of the laboratory work involved in processing evidence from crime scenes, I found myself heckling the entirety of the single episode I watched. However, the outfits worn by the Forensic team are readily available to buy, look. This outfit would be the easiest to replicate, and thanks to the hood, would be the most useful for disguise." Sherlock waved his mobile under Lestrade's nose, _EBay_ indeed had very close matches to what the forensic scientists were clad in available to buy.

"We should talk to purchasing, that's pretty good value if it is up to standard." Anderson muttered, glancing at the screen.

"_Not_ the time or place, Anderson… But why would the killer go to all the trouble? Why skin him and then presumably take the skin with you? Why bother locking yourself in a room with the chance of being found as soon as the door is opened?"

"This is organised crime, _very well organised_ crime… I need to see the CCTV of the entrance and exit." Sherlock said.

"Can you tell anything else? Anything at all about The Skinner?" Lestrade asked.

"Left handed. Probably a butcher, or perhaps a taxidermist – the skinning procedure was neat. Blood splatter is minimal and low to the ground; the victim was lying down throughout, blood flow was slow – possibly drugged." Sherlock said, beginning to leave the room.

"_Is that it?_" Anderson asked, shocked at the lack of forthcoming information.

"There doesn't appear to be any struggle, the victim was already incapacitated prior to skinning. The Skinner wouldn't have required to assert too much strength, so I cannot determine The Skinner's build. The Skinner has taken all of their evidence with them – I do not think you will find any finger prints." Sherlock responded.

"Okay, let's find some CCTV – Anderson, when you've done with the photos, meet us in security so we can test Sherlock's theory." Lestrade said, gladly following the Consulting Detective away from the crime scene.

* * *

"It's Dave that does this normally, but he had to be taken to hospital after that panic attack – don't blame him, to be honest, not if what they're saying is right. _Skinned? Really?_" said an acne-splattered young man who had agreed to take them through the CCTV. He was the nearest thing the company had to an IT system administrator, the son of one of the staff, working his gap year to earn a little sum to take to university.

"Begin last night, as everyone began to leave. Identify everyone." Sherlock said, watching the screen.

"Okay… here we are… I don't know everyone who works here yet, not names anyway." The teenager said.

"Just do your best, Jonathan." Lestrade said softly.

"Okay – those are the 'Three Witches' – sorry, but they're _awful_ women. They look after payroll and personnel; they're not nice at all, couldn't give a rats about anyone else but themselves, they've worked for the company since the beginning and even the _new boss_ is scared of them. They make things really miserable in the office…" Sherlock barely acknowledged the three older women leaving the building. They were uninteresting.

"That's Macey – she's officially a clerk, but says her job title should be _'doer of the things that the Three Witches can't be arsed doing themselves'_ – she was the one to come in first this morning;, she does that a lot, gets more work done by coming in an hour early than she does all day with The Witches ordering her about. She hates the job, but beggars can't be choosers – she was made redundant from her last place." Again, Sherlock was not interested. Jonathan was certainly attracted to the twenty-three year old woman, who was obviously waiting for her long-term boyfriend to propose.

"They're some of the motorcyclists – they think they're God's Gift – strut around like they're top dogs; I haven't met all of them, they're in and out all day delivering… that's Mavis, she's like everyone's Grandma, she looks after the kitchen and flicks a duster around, but she's leaving a lot later than usual…"

"She is not the killer, her arthritis and shaking hands do not correlate to the precision crime scene." Sherlock said, dismissing the grey-haired woman.

"These blokes here are drivers – we've only got three vans, most things go by bike... … those ladies are the call handlers, they answer the phones when people ring up… ... that's the dispatch manager, he's like a dragon guarding his treasure sometimes, won't let _anyone_ touch his rotas or route plans – a bit OCD I think… ... She's my Mum, she's the accountant, and there's the new boss – I don't know what he does really, but he has the fanciest office."

"_Boring_… is that all? I can see a security guard locking the door – but only one lock of the three, and he did not pull the metal shutter down." Sherlock said.

"That's Dave! Probably someone still in the building when he left, he has to leave on time to pick his kids up from their after school club so sometimes he isn't the last person out. I didn't see the owner leave, but he only comes in now and again – he spends more time out meeting people and getting more business." Jonathan wrinkled his nose, "He watches porn on his work laptop – it took me a _whole weekend_ to get a virus off it, cheapskate won't pay for a really good anti-virus, or apparently get a personal laptop."

"Do you have a picture of your boss? And his name?" Lestrade asked.

"Erm, he's got a picture on the website; he's _Mr. Groves_ – _nobody_ is allowed to call him by his first name – I _think_ it's Lawrence." Jonathan said, leaving Sherlock to the controls of the CCTV and pulling up the company's website on another screen.

"Can you print me that photo?" Lestrade said, wondering if the photo of the chubby-faced man smiling on the screen was their victim, or perhaps The Skinner.

Sherlock continued to fast-forward through the night, at no point did anyone come to fully lock the door and pull the shutter down. At 07:03, the security guard arrived and was obviously annoyed at the lack of properly closing the business down for the night. Within a few minutes, Macey arrived and let herself in.

"The victim has been put into a body bag and is being moved to the morgue. I've left the other four to finish processing the scene." Anderson said by way of greeting as he came into the little security office; his blue over-suit gone to reveal smart grey trousers and a polo shirt with the Scotland Yard Forensic Branch logo.

"Anderson, watch from here." Sherlock said, slowing the speed back to normal as the forensic van pulled up and the five team members quickly and efficiently put the tent together. The policeman standing guard was already at the door – turning away the workers as they arrived. The Three Witches were the first to walk away, while others lingered and loitered around. The five blue-clad scientists entered the building after exiting the tent.

"That looks like us to me." Anderson confirmed, pointing to the screen.

Sherlock fast-forward the footage, Lestrade and Donovan arrived, Donovan dashed back outside and vomited, three forensic scientists left and went back into the tent, one carrying an un-branded black backpack and holding a plastic crate of equipment.

"Whoa! _He's_ not one of my team – go back! There! Not mine, too short to be Mike, too fat around the middle to be Steve, not one of the ladies. He's wearing a bloody face mask though! I can only see his eyes. He went into the tent behind the other two… and then they left carrying some more kit, he didn't."

"I suspect that the backpack or crate has the missing skin, body parts and clothing." Lestrade muttered.

"Missing? Eww." Jonathan said, pulling a disgusted face.

"The tent back panel just moved, The Skinner managed to exit in the camera's _blind spot!_" Lestrade said, frustrated.

"Jonathan, can you increase the resolution?" Sherlock asked re-winding and pausing at the moment the suspect walked through the door.

"That's as good as the zoom gets, the boss won't pay for better software. Like I said, cheapskate."

"This image is _useless_. I can only firmly say that the killer is male and Caucasian." Sherlock grumbled, pushing away from the desk to pace. "This was _very_ well planned; The Skinner will already be a long way from the scene."

"We'll have to wait for the DNA." Anderson growled, furious that someone had used _his _team to get away from a crime scene.

"There is more to this. Much more." Sherlock said, leaning as close to the screen as he could to attempt to get _something_ from the image.

"Okay everyone, I'll organise officers to speak to the crowd outside, maybe they saw someone? I'll see if there's any more CCTV in the area… thanks for your help Jonathan." Lestrade said, clapping the lad on the back.

"He did most of the work, once I showed him the controls." The teen said, gesturing to Sherlock.

"I'm going to St. Bart's. I need to see the toxicology report – if the victim was drugged, we might be able to trace something from that." Sherlock said, "Such a shame Molly worked through the night, I don't trust the other pathologists to do a credible job of this." The Consulting Detective left, not even saying 'goodbye'.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say he _fancied_ Molly Hooper; but I don't think he's actually capable of the emotions involved." Anderson said shaking his head, "He does nothing but _moan_ about what the other pathologists do; that's the kindest words I've ever heard him use for _anyone_."

"Molly's a lot like John; loyal to a fault and prepared to put up with his lack of normal-ness." Lestrade replied, "Poor thing has carried a torch for him for ages… but you have to admit she's bloody good at what she does." The Inspector left the CCTV room as other members of the force arrived to take away the CCTV equipment for further analysis – hopefully they could work on it to get an ID.

"Come on Jonathan, I'll escort you out." Anderson said, guiding the lad out of the way.


	8. Mickey Mouse vs Tinkerbell

**Author's Note: Just a quickie this time, I'm afraid.**

_I am an amateur author of false name,_

_I borrow worlds of another's fame._

_I stake no claim on recognised locations,_

_Neither do I own canon situations._

_I merely come here to spend a while,_

_Reading other's work; writing my own style._

_I earn no money, no wage, no dosh._

_I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash._

_I do not mean to step on legal toes,_

_I mean no infringement, I'm friend not foe._

_So please, do come in, relax, unwind._

_I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find._

**Mickey Mouse vs. Tinkerbell.**

"Mmmm, I've never been to Angelo's during the day before, they make a _really_ nice lasagne. I wonder why they call it 'The Seven Secrets'? I didn't think to ask." Molly said, licking her plastic fork and closing the polystyrene lid of the container that had held her meal; neither Thalia nor the pathologist dared use the crockery or cutlery from 221B's kitchen.

"I asked while you visited the loo, apparently it is the combined secret recipes of the three chefs, their mothers and Angelo's grandmother." She yawned, "Apparently Sherlock has helped Angelo in the past; he sent my brother a message to ask if he had a sister. We got a considerable discount, despite my attempts to pay the full amount." The younger woman's blinks were becoming longer and longer as she fought the urge to doze.

"Do you think the chicken, spinach and ricotta tagliatelle and penne arrabbiata will be alright for Sherlock and John? I don't know what they like to eat." Molly asked, sipping from the cardboard cup of peppermint tea, "I'm going to have to run home to work off that slice of tiramisu."

"Sherlock can be a little picky – but only when he has something occupying his mind, I suspect John forces him to eat during cases." Thalia said rubbing her un-bruised eye in tiredness, "I'm _assuming_ that John will eat most things, I don't think the Army give much choice in the matter, especially in the field."

"The trick with field rations is to not look at it; they generally taste better than they look." John said with a smile as he removed his coat and immediately went to work on his shirt top button and tie. "You didn't have to get lunch for me. I just thought I'd nip back and see how you were."

"Sherlock was paying." Molly smiled, digging into the carrier bag and pulling out the remaining plastic containers.

"Fair enough – what options have I got again?" John asked, moving his chair closer to the coffee table and the two ladies sitting on the sofa, he read the receipt stapled to the plastic bag before making his choice (the more expensive of the two meals).

"John, I don't like these painkillers very much, they make me fuzzy." Thalia yawned again, shaking her head at the end as if to clear it.

"When did you take them?" the doctor asked.

"Before we started eating, about three-quarters of an hour ago?" Molly supplied, noticing that Thalia was now starting to fall asleep. She yawned herself, tired from a long shift and her tummy replete with rich lasagne.

"She certainly doesn't have Sherlock's resistance to painkillers; these aren't even the really strong dose. Molly, can you move off the sofa so she can lay down? It's best to let her sleep. Come on Thalia, relax." Molly immediately jumped up and assisted John in making Thalia comfortable on the sofa. The two doctors moved to the other side of the room, John shuffling his arm chair back to its original position.

"She was trying not to limp, but I think it got to the point where she couldn't help it. We went to Angelos because it was the closest. Sherlock has a case, by the way."

"I know, I don't like the sound of it – he's complaining that you're not doing the autopsy, but I don't envy the person who is." John said, digging into the chicken, spinach and ricotta pasta with gusto.

"How bad is it?" Molly asked.

"Not bad, could do with a few minutes in the microwave, but I don't have a bloody clue what he's had cooking in it this week so I'm not risking it." John answered after swallowing.

"I meant the body, not the food." Molly giggled.

"Oh – the man was skinned alive. Missing his genitals, eyes and tongue. Sherlock's going nuts – well as much as a high-functioning sociopath can go nuts, not much evidence to work with at all." John said, continuing to eat.

"That will make identification difficult, no face, no fingerprints – they are going to have to rely on DNA and dental records – and hope he's already in the database." Molly answered sipping her mint tea and stifling a yawn of her own.

"Sherlock's text said you had the night shift, but were staying with Thalia. Get yourself off to bed, if you like." John said, motioning to the hallway.

"I should really go hooooooooome." She yawned widely, the last word stretching out at the same time as she stretched her arms above her head.

"Molly, you're dead on your feet, I'm worried that you wouldn't get home safely. Go have a shower and get some kip –, use my room." John replied.

"Are you sure?" Molly asked.

"Molly, you can sleep in Sherock's room – no stairs to climb, it's where I've been staying – he won't mind." Thalia mumbled, only opening one eye, "Raid Sherlock's wardrobe for something to wear."

"I don't know…" Molly said, looking uncertain.

"They're clothes, and as long as you don't go to sleep in one of his coats I don't think he'd even care. Molly, you're about to fall asleep – just go to bed please; I'm fine on the sofa and I think John will be going back to work shortly." Thalia said, yawning again before closing her open eye.

"The pink towel with the flowers is clean, Mrs. Hudson insisted on bringing a selection of towels and bath salts for Thalia." John said, taking Molly's elbow and leading her to Sherlock's room and the bathroom. "The water takes a few minutes to really get warm, it's an old set of pipes."

* * *

Molly startled awake as a small flash lit up the room, she groaned in complaint of the sudden awakening and yawned, looking around in the gloom. The heartbeat beneath her ear had slightly sped up and was quite comforting – the lub-dub slowly sending her back to sleep.

"You're back early, Mycroft. How was Quebec? Delete the photograph you just took." Rumbled through the chest beneath her.

"Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!" she screamed, startled to find herself wrapped around Sherlock; scrambling to put some distance between them, and falling out of bed.

"You're not Thalia." Sherlock said as his elder brother flipped on the light.

"In the middle of a case, and here I find Sherlock sleeping and doing something that looks rather like _cuddling_. Well, this is rather unexpected." Mycroft said, walking over to the side of the bed and helping Molly stand. Molly squeaked indignantly moving away from him, tugging the white shirt down so it met her at mid-thigh.

"What the bloody Hell happened?!" John said, dashing into the room, his army-issued hand gun at the ready; after a quick assessment of the situation, he applied the safety mechanism.

"Molly? Are you alright?" Thalia said, limping into the room, rubbing her eyes.

"You put sleeping tablets in my tea!" Sherlock accused, pointing a finger at John.

"No, _I_ did – I know how you behave when you have a case, and I don't like it. Not to mention you haven't been sleeping well while I've been here." Thalia said, her good hand fisted and propped on her hip.

"Rather you than me, Thalia, I tried that once and went down with a sudden case of food poisoning. After I found the culture of _Escherichia coli_ in the fridge – the individual colonies lined up to spell my initials – I didn't try to sedate him again." John said shuddering in memory.

"It wasn't a particularly nasty strain, just enough so that you wouldn't do it again." Sherlock hissed.

"Poison our sister and I'll make certain that they won't find your body." Mycroft said, glaring at Sherlock.

"Hey! I'm an independent modern woman; I'm perfectly capable of committing my own murders." Thalia said with a yawn, tugging the duvet from Sherlock and moving to share the warmth with Molly in the corner of the room.

"That's mine!" Sherlock said, moving to snatch it back from his sister.

"Sherlock! You're only in boxers and there are ladies present!" John cried, realising that his flatmate had crawled into bed almost-naked – immediately after a shower if the towel on the floor was any indication. Molly had at least had the manners to hang hers up.

"I _faked_ my way through finishing school to shut Aunt Winifred up; I don't think I count as a lady." Thalia muttered to Molly, who giggled.

"Oh God! I was snuggled up to a _nearly-naked_ Sherlock!" Molly squeaked, blushing bright red.

"Will wonders never cease." Mycroft mumbled, examining his fingernails.

"Such events have been known to occur; with more frequency than you manage." Sherlock said, wrapping the bed sheet around himself like a cape.

"I don't do things like that!" Molly insisted, catching Mycroft's eye.

"Do not fear for your reputation Dr. Hooper; had you intended on seducing my brother, I do believe that you would have not worn Mickey Mouse knickers." Mycroft said.

"Well, the Tinkerbell ones are in the wash." Molly said, blushing further after she realised what she'd let slip.

"Well, how about I put the kettle on?" John said, breaking the tension.

"I think that is an excellent idea John; ladies, perhaps we should leave Sherlock to put more clothes on?" Mycroft -said, offering both arms in a gentlemanly manner.


End file.
